Chapter Text
In the beginning, there was only dust.
War was a way of life, and the musty scent of blood ran through the air as surely as it dyed the soil crimson. But amidst the swirling eddies of chaos and fighting, screams and swirls of brown, grey, black— therein converged the dust into something more.
It was not a body. At least, not in any conventional sense of the word. But it was a vessel. One vast enough to contain an entire soul.
And how could it not be, when the vessel was the very land itself? A hundred distant mountain peaks, a million grains of sand, all shifting, sliding, constantly in motion, all under its control, though it did not know it yet.
In the beginning, there was very little it knew but fighting.
In a world where power was everything, and the only way to acquire it was to steal from another, fighting was not so much a skill as a necessity. And so it learned to call upon rocks to counter blows from other creatures just barely of this world. It learned, not just to survive, but to thrive, fueled by the anger that burned in its soul, hungering for something it would not truly know for eons yet.
There was no tomorrow in this dream-like existence. Only just that— existence. Today, today, today, and an aching sense of loneliness.
But when the clang of steel and distant screams finally paused long enough for it to realise— to become conscious of itself and this strange new sense of awareness, it was at the top of the very tallest of mountains, a peak that stretched high enough for it to gaze over the entire continent. Smothered by wisps of cloudfall, it gazed upon what lay before it— an entire world yet to be explored. An entire history yet to be learned— yet to be written.
And amidst the rolling plains and jagged spikes of rock, a wash of peace spread over its body of ash and smoke and dust.
It breathed in the crisp, mountain air, and for the first time, saw more than a war-torn continent. Saw, in the brilliant reds of the sun setting in the horizon, that blood had not yet reached every part of this earth.
The dust condensed, swirling faster, faster still, and there stood a figure, clad in ash.
And though it could see for all intents and purposes, could sense all it needed to know of colour and shapes and light, it realised in an instant that there was something, someone, out there waiting to be found.
And there on the top of the tallest of peaks—
for the very first time, it opened its eyes.
The moment a new Archon is crowned is one not easily forgotten.
The aftershocks of their ascension are felt all over Teyvat, both literally and metaphorically. As the land tries to accommodate the sudden, acute shift in power, not a soul, living or dead, remains unaware of the repercussions.
Not even ones belonging to Gods.
Rex Lapis had witnessed every one thus far. Had seen the shift in the faces of the Seven and mourned the deaths of his fallen comrades. He had ruled longer than most Archons had even existed, and had gripped his lands within his clenched fist of rock, weathering the throes of erosion where so many else had failed.
And yet, despite himself and his years of service, despite how many times he had looked out, hopeful for solidarity, familiar faces always seemed to disappear one way or another.
In the tumultuous tidings of the War, not much was certain.
But the scent of musk in the air, the pacing, aching sense of anticipation when one of the neighbouring nations— Fontaine, Natlan, Sumeru— crowned a new guardian deity, had always been a constant. No matter how sombre the implications, the subtle crackle of static between his fingertips was a welcome change from the moist warmth of Liyue.
He gazed down over the railing, eyes catching on the small encampment that had been set up for the night. Orderly rows of tents were interrupted by the passing glow of firelight as a patrol guard made his rounds. A temporary home, but home for now.
He sighed and let his eyes flutter shut.
A tiny shard of ice crystallised on his eyelashes where they had caught the rain, sparkling brilliantly in his periphery as it caught the lamplight.
Ah, he mused, the edges of his lips curving up into a smile. Snezhnaya, then.
The feeling was not something easily sensed by mortals. But even they seemed to realise that something momentous had just occurred. His forces, asleep no longer, rose from their tents to peer up into the sky, as if waiting and watching for something more obvious— a miracle. A sign.
And for a split second, as the air became tinged with traces of permafrost, as the lights were extinguished and the camp was plunged into pitch cold darkness, a sign had been granted to all those who had wished for one.
He watched his people with fond amusement. To him, the feeling was familiar in a way he wished it wasn't. He had witnessed it countless times before and he was certain he would witness it again. Power always, always comes at a cost. And what could be more powerful than a member of the Seven? An Archon of Teyvat— the ultimate ascension.
There is nothing quite so unstable as a new crown, after all.
But then— a sudden peal of thunder sounded through the air, so loud it sent him stumbling back a fraction, ears ringing with the sheer weight of it all. A glance down at the mortals confirmed that they seemed entirely unaffected by it, meaning the sudden disturbance had been felt only by him.
He blinked.
Another crack blared through his head and he braced himself, disoriented, but instead of a bang of thunder, a searing pain erupted in his chest, right over where his heart would have been beating, had he possessed one.
The pain was nothing like he'd ever known before. As a warrior god and protector of Liyue, as one who had fought in more battles than he could even count, pain was not something foreign to him.
And yet this was different. This was searing him from the inside, branding him with what he now saw was a mark of some sort.
A tiny symbol— one he did not recognise. Six point stars marked every vertex of what appeared to be a triangle with tails on either end, curved inwards to resemble a bow.
The sudden surge of power he felt rising within him sparked out in an instant, and he felt his vision go white.
The new Cryo Archon had declared her ideal.
And as Rex Lapis traced the outline of the now glowing mark on his chest with a talon, eyes wide with wonder and idle curiosity, he couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia. A longing for something he had never quite known. And resentment at the implications of it all.
The firelight flickered and the mark shone brighter.
He did not smile again. But he let his gaze linger over it a moment longer, for this was an ideal unlike any that had preceded it.
Of all things—
He forced his gaze away from the mark, onwards and upwards. He did not wish to think about it, because it did not matter. It could not. He knew this.
And yet...
Love?
"Whatever do you suppose it means?" asked Guizhong when Morax revealed the mark to her one day. They had been fighting side by side for decades now, and as far as friends went, she was the closest he had to one. "I've never seen anything like it."
"I'm not certain. It would appear to be a symbol of some sorts— a representation of something more monumental, I assume. But in all my years, I do not recall seeing anything similar to it."
Guizhong's eyes traced the shape, following the white lines embedded into the skin. "Have you checked the texts? Perhaps the library at Lisha will have something. Or maybe even the one at Sumeru."
"I have, and I found nothing. I've requested a cleric to scour over them again in case I missed something but...it is unlikely," he sighed.
Guizhong cocked her head inquisitively. "It almost looks like a constellation of some sort. Like the Carmen Dei or the Alatus. Are you certain it is not simply some variation of the Lapis Dei?"
Morax shook his head slowly, though the idea kept turning itself in his mind. A constellation? " It looks nothing like mine or yours, or anyone else's that I've encountered thus far. Besides, the Tsaritsa has no reason to imprint me with my own constellation."
"Then perhaps it will be for someone you have not met yet."
Morax opened his mouth again to protest, to correct her. But he found that the theory had...some merit. It seemed unlikely, improbable, but that did not mean it was impossible. And it was better than anything he had been able to decipher. "Perhaps. Though I cannot imagine someone so significant to me that their very essence is staining my skin. Who would even be that important?"
At this, Guizhong drew away suddenly. She blinked once, as if realising something Morax had not, and the hand hovering over the mark fell to her lap.
When she looked up, her eyes glittered with unsaid promise and her smile was tinged with a hint of melancholy.
"Who indeed? You tell me, Morax."
The water was cool as it ran over his hands.
The wind was a biting cold with early onsets of frost and the chill had started nipping at his fingertips, turning them blue. Still, he could not quite muster up the will to stand up from where he was seated on the riverbank. The water was just as cold as the air was and it numbed every part of him in contact with it.
He did not mind, however.
The numbness was nice sometimes. It gave him something to focus on besides the endless battles. The carnage he faced every day, after all, was nothing he'd rather remember. If he had a choice, he would choose to forget— not remember a second of it and dissolve into the sand he had once emerged from, blissfully ignorant of all he had wrought.
But he was bound by the very ideal he chose to preach. And what kind of contract was not held to the very end?
Sometimes he wondered whether all of it had been worth it.
He slayed the gods who opposed his reign, but in their faces he saw not foes, but friends from eons past. Friends from other timelines who he had shared meals with in an era even he himself scarcely recalled. Those that he, once upon a time, may have even considered family.
Now buried in dust by his hand.
The blackness crept towards his soul, but sometimes he wondered if it crept from within it instead.
Guilt was something he did not often let himself feel, because when he did, it was overwhelming in a way even the threat of death was not. He felt as though he was standing on the rim of an enormous chasm, the edge of the abyss mere inches from his feet. One wrong move and he would tumble in, in, never to emerge again.
At least, if he did, he would never be quite whole again.
However, it was not guilt he felt at that moment.
Perhaps he had lost the capacity to feel altogether, for it had been so very long since he had allowed himself the luxury. But now, when the air was cold and his hands were submerged in clear, blue freshwater, it did not feel quite so momentous. He could almost pretend that there was nothing beyond this bubble of tranquility— no soldiers waiting for orders, no messengers to relay more news of death.
No contracts left to be fulfilled.
Morax sighed wearily. Such naive thinking would never amount to anything.
From beside him, he heard a quiet rustle. For a moment, he did not look over; the sound was so faint, he feared he may have imagined it. But there it was again, soft and delicate. A swish of horsetail, a dance of ferns.
And a tiny fox with sleek orange fur.
Morax blinked. He hadn't expected to have company.
But the fox seemed no more interested in him than anything else in the surroundings. It seemed wary in a way that betrayed its intelligence, and its eyes sparkled with an unusually blue hue. In a flash, it darted forwards towards the stream, lapping up the water with a little pink tongue. As quickly as it had appeared, it ran back into the safe shadows of the foliage.
Morax cocked his head appraisingly. The fox seemed to possess all the features of a typical Inazuman kitsune except for the telltale nine tails, for it had only one. Its fur leaned more towards ginger than red, and the tips of its paws were a brilliant white, as if it had waded through pearly snow that never quite melted.
He smiled gently. Held out a hand and said, in as unthreatening a voice as he could, "Hello, there."
The fox did not reply. Of course— it was not a true kitsune, after all. But it did stick its nose out of the weeds, sniffing inquisitively. Its eyes were cautious, but curious.
Morax did nothing but hold out his hand further.
For a moment, they were locked in a stalemate, neither willing to take the first step. But Morax possessed the patience of all the stone in the harbour, and if time was what it took, then he had always felt he possessed an overabundance of it anyway. "I will not harm you. I swear it."
The fox tilted its head and Morax almost believed it understood every word. Slowly, one snowy paw at a time, it walked forward, whiskers twitching at every breath it let out.
Morax could not quite explain why he felt so drawn to the little creature. Foxes were not exactly a rarity after all, though it was rather unusual to see one so far from the isles of Inazuma. But something about it felt...familiar to him. Which was strange, but not quite unbelievable. The tufty orange fur, the streaks of red that ran through its tail— all of it pointed to something unusual. Mythical creatures were hardly a rarity either, but even that did not seem quite right.
He did not know why, but thought perhaps he did not need to.
Despite being surrounded by his people, his adepti, even his dearest friends (he supposed Guizhong counted as one. Perhaps even Alatus) he still felt a sting of loneliness in his heart that he could never quite quell the ache of. And while the little creature was, of course, only a fox, one whose life was more fleeting than even a mortal's, he felt in his gaze a sense of camaraderie.
Which was absurd. But many things were in this strange existence of song and dust and war.
The fox took a single step forward, head now in line with Morax's outstretched hand. And with those large, comprehending eyes fixed to his, it nuzzled forward into the warmth of his palm, ears laying flat atop its head.
Morax could not stop the huff of pleasant surprise that escaped his lips. But he did manage to smooth a thumb over its head, his veins glowing starkly gold against the brown of his skin.
He barely even noticed when it happened.
An arrow zipped past him from far off in the distance, striking its target with almost unbelievable accuracy.
Morax knew he should be reacting, saying something, getting up, letting go of the body that was now going limp in his hands—
—but it was all he could do to stare wide eyed, shock coating every inch of his features at the arrow that was now protruding from the fox's heart. A clean kill, one that would not cause any suffering. One meant to finish the job in an instant.
On any other day, he might be impressed. After all, he was a centuries old war god. But this...
This was—
Unforgivable.
He watched helplessly as red blossomed from the white fur of its chest, its legs bowing gracefully as it collapsed to the grassy embankment. Its eyes were open still from where it had been locked onto Morax's, but they did not sparkle. They were still blue, still wide, but blank. Glassy.
Dead.
Morax felt his heart ache, a jolt of excruciating pain passing through his body, spreading from his chest. The pain was so sharp, so acute, that for a second, he had to lean over himself to bear it, hand coming up to clutch at the spot the pain originated.
Under his hand, a glowing brand of an unknown constellation flickered, went dark, and ignited itself once more.
His other hand moved back up to stroke the fox's smooth fur one last time, warm with healing magic.
But for all the powers his immortality had granted, even he could not bring the dead back to life.
He gave himself five seconds to mourn. Five seconds to grieve the loss that seeped from his very pores— he could not afford a moment longer. He would not allow himself to, for it had been that very leisure that had killed it in the first place.
Five seconds.
One.
Two.
Thre-
"M-my lord!"
Morax had to clench his fist from doing something he knew he would later regret.
A mortal man had run forward. He looked young— young enough to be called a boy, really. "I- my apologies, my lord, I had not- I never realised it was you, or I- I would never even have dared-" his voice was shaking, either from fear or awe. Though perhaps those two things were not so different.
Unassuming. Insignificant. Morax was tempted to ignore his sputtering altogether, because he had far, far more important things to think about.
But then he saw the curved willow bow the mortal had held in one hand.
For a moment, he struggled to keep his rage in check. He had never been a cruel god, and Guizhong had always been there to pull him away from the edge when he felt himself tilt. But right there in that instant, while warm blood trickled down the riverbed, he thought he might kill someone who for once, did not deserve it.
It was only a moment, but it was nearly enough. From the look on the mortal's face, he knew it too.
"Leave," he managed to grit out through his teeth, fist clenched tight at his side to keep the tendrils of power from leaking out of the earthly vessel it filled. The mortal did not need to be told twice as he scrambled away, nearly tripping over the soles of his leather shoes in his haste.
It would not have been easy to kill the fox from that distance with this much wind in the sky. Sublime precision, incredible talent— but that had of course, been his downfall.
Blood pooled where the fox's body lay, now tinting the stream a very, very pale pink.
Morax shut his eyes against the wind and the sun, an age old tiredness suddenly taking over his bones. With a wave of his hand and a flash of geo, a tiny monument was constructed where it had crumpled. Not quite a proper burial, but it seemed almost sacrilegious to move it from where it had fallen. It was not in the most ideal of places, the proximity to the water's edge making it bound to erosion, but Morax knew it would hold nonetheless.
He had willed it so, and thus the land would obey.
It had been a long time since he last attended a funeral. There would not be enough hours in the day for him to go to them all. But for this, he made an exception, for a funeral needed mourners, and there was no one to mourn the loss of this one life but himself.
And it seemed almost fitting that after all he had done, he would suffer this alone.
It was only a fox.
But with it, came the loss of something more.
Four, five.
Time was up.
Tracing the outline of a familiar scar with his fingertip was reliving a moment he had almost forgotten happened.
A scythe to the hip, a chain to the neck, a longsword that cleaved straight through his rib cage.
The thing was, he could easily will those scars away if he so wished..
But he didn't. Because without them, it would be as if those countless battles, countless tears, countless allies and innocents and foes had never even existed. His body was an old tome, a record of all that had been wrought and endured. And no matter which form he took, the scars would follow, because that was his honour as a warrior— his final promise to all those who fell before him.
His first contract. The one that had started it all; this age-old race to uphold an ideal in every aspect of his life.
A scar on his chest, arching from left to right. A dagger to the heart, struck true.
Perhaps it would also be his last.
A pounding at the door pulled Morax awake.
It wasn't often that he felt the need to sleep. With the immortal ichor in his veins, he could go weeks on end without any at all. But the war against Osial had been raging on for months now, and there was just so much to be done that the thought of sleep had never even crossed his mind.
But the lack of it had hit him all together, all at once. It wasn't in a way particularly noticeable. In fact, if you didn't know what to look for, you wouldn't have realised at all. But he knew. He knew that when he hefted that heavy stone spear, the weight of it bore down on him harder than it should have. He knew when he threw it that his muscles were not meant to have strained so.
He knew that his strike had not hit true.
He could not afford to be making mistakes. Even the slightest bit of hesitance— a shaky arm while he aimed, an amber gaze not as clear as it should be— could have devastating consequences, both for himself, and for the people he had so worked to protect. So tonight, just for one night, he would give in to sleep's warm embrace and let his body heal like it needed to.
At least, that had been the plan.
He did not awaken with a shout, or even a startle. His eyes simply opened from his dreamless sleep and trained themselves on the heavy wooden door of his chambers.
The pounding sounded again.
With a small sigh, he resigned himself to his fate, pulling himself out of his covers and towards the door.
He had barely grazed the doorknob when it swung open on its own. Morax had never been one to lock his doors, partly because he was always prepared to engage, even at his most vulnerable, and partly because, well—
Who would dare enter the chambers of a God?
He wasn't certain whether he should be angry or impressed by the boldness of whoever had simply thrown the door open without even having received permission to enter. There was a certain bravery found in opposing the Gods, he supposed. Brave, but stupid.
All that flew out of his mind, however, when he registered the presence on the other side of the door, because what he had not considered, in all his sleep-addled musings, was that perhaps the reason for such aloofness was neither bravery nor stupidity, but simply necessity.
A young man stood before him. Wild blue eyes and bright orange hair suggested that he might be a foreigner, likely from the ranks of Fontaine or Snezhnaya. But the brown robes and copper plated armour showed that he was indeed one of Morax's own. A member of the Millelith— likely a high ranking officer too, by the looks of the sigil pinned to his shoulder.
He was panting for breath, heaving as he leaned heavily against the doorframe. Sweat poured down his forehead, disappearing into his shirt. But his eyes were bright with intent. And the hand that was holding out a scroll for Morax to take was marred with the twisting sinews of old scars.
"A letter," he gasped, the hand holding the incriminating piece of paper trembling only slightly. "Intercepted from one of Osial's runners."
Morax's eyes flashed and he seized the scroll. "Report, soldier."
"He plans to attack from the East, from the Sea of Clouds, where his control over the sea would be strongest. He has his forces stationed near Yaoguang Shoal while he himself awaits to corner us in Guyun. Lesser sea gods are currently patrolling the perimeter."
Morax's eyes skimmed over the text on the page, confirming for himself that the words were true.
"Then we have no time to waste. Preparations to attack must be made immediately before the tides rise. We can only assume that Osial plans to strike on the eve of the next full moon, so we must move against him before he is prepared to counterattack." Morax glanced up, mind whirring with battle plans and formations, calculations and possibilities. "Ready the warships to send a fleet over to Yaoguang Shoal. I will engage Osial myself at Guyun. If we keep his forces split in half, we will be able to overwhelm him and finally put an end to this messy ordeal. Have someone run to the Harbour to inform the Qixing as well."
The soldier nodded, though he was still shaking, his skin pallid and clammy. "Of course, my lord. I will have a messenger pass on your orders as soon as I am able." He coughed once, and attempted to hide it by clearing his throat.
Morax turned his gaze towards him once more, reevaluating, always planning. "How did you come upon this message anyway?"
At this, the soldier seemed to come into himself again, although only a little.
"I found him while I was camped outside the enemy base. It wasn't too hard to take care of his guards either," he said, with no small amount of pride. "I brought it back to you as soon as I could."
Morax nodded with approval, clapping a hand to his shoulder in a manner he hoped came across as grateful as he felt. "Thank you, soldier. Your services today have been insurmountable and I will see to it personally that you are adequately compens-"
Morax had not not even finished talking when the soldier went down with a graceless thud. His eyes widened as he watched him fall to his knees, hands moving down to clutch weakly at his abdomen.
He swallowed thickly as he sank to the floor himself, geo encrusted hands sweeping across the copper chain mail. He cursed lowly as they came away covered in bright, ruby blood.
"You were injured?" he asked, a little dumbfounded. He had hidden it well. Or perhaps Morax was simply unobservant.
Both possibilities unnerved him.
"I'll be...fine..." the soldier choked out. "The damn guy had a knife on him. It was my fault for not having noticed in time."
He had been a fool.
Morax's amber eyes glowed, hands shining with yellow light as he attempted to heal the man sprawled before him. Healing magic had never been his forte, but he could use it in case of an emergency. It was fine. It would be fine.
But the skin was not knotting itself back together like it was meant to, and the blood pouring out of what he could now see was a deep stab wound, half hidden by his armour, was not ceasing its relentless flow.
Morax's eyebrows knit together, concern becoming apparent on his face for the first time. He tried again.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
"Wait here," he said, a little panicked, because he could not for the life of him come up with a reason why his magic wouldn't work. This had never happened before. "Let me fetch you a healer. Wait here ."
But as he scrambled to stand up, a hand weakly came up to clutch at the pristine white fabric of his cloak, leaving a messy red trail where it grazed the silk. "N-no, stop. I-I'm fine."
"Now is no time to be stubborn," he insisted, choking down the impending feeling of panic. He had spent his entire life soaked in blood, had watched soldiers fall time and time again, but he had never felt this kind of fear before. This fear of consequence. "I'm taking you to a healer now."
Weighing his options in his head, he scooped the man into his arms, intending to teleport them down to camp where he could find a healer. They would all be asleep now, but it didn't matter. They would answer to him and they would fix this man in his arms with the orange hair. They had to.
He would not think otherwise.
But the man inched out of his grip, hacking up a wad of blood he somehow managed to spit out onto the floor. "It won't work on m-me. Healing m-magic, I mean. Never has." He was stumbling over his words now, mouth struggling to form around the syllables. "Besides," he met Morax's gaze with his own, and his eyes were so, so blue, it seemed unnatural. They seemed to see into Morax's very soul, and something about this whole situation just felt wrong . "It is an honour to have...s-served you."
"No. No."
But his eyes were going glassy and his lips were twisting up into a tiny, proud smile. His hand twitched one last time, and then fell away, landing on the floor with a dull, hollow thud. " For Rex Lapis."
And then nothing. For a beat, there was nothing but the words in the air and the sticky, tacky blood coating Morax's hands.
And then pain. Agonizing, devastating pain blooming from his chest and spreading to the very tips of his fingers and the ends of his hair. He did not cry for he did not know how, but part of him wanted to, and the feeling was so strange, so foreign, because he was a God and this was only a mortal, and he had never felt this aching, longing need before, and yet—
Yet there he was, hunched over on the cold marble of his floor, a mortal man clutched in his arms.
His gnosis had never felt so heavy in his long, immortal lifetime. What had always been a source of strength, pulsing, radiating with what little humanity he could claim to possess, now felt like a reminder of how much he had lost, and how little he truly had left to lose.
A glance down towards his bare chest showed that the familiar mark had flickered, going black for only a moment before resuming its steady glow, albeit a little dimmer.
For the very first time, understanding hit him.
His fists clenched, still crimson, still horribly wet with blood.
His eyes had been so very blue.
Eventually he won the battle at Guyun, now known as Guyun Stone Forest for all the pillars of rock he had used to pin Osial and his followers to the ocean floor.
His spear, in turn, the one he wielded with all the might of a being with his power, became known as the Vortex Vanquisher.
Sigils of Permission to seal them away, wards and curses to keep them there.
It should have felt safe. He should have felt safer than he did.
But something bigger was coming. He could feel it. For all his tireless fighting, his precious Harbour would not be truly safe for a long, long time yet.
And no matter how hard he tried to forget, the blue of the tides kept reminding him of sea coloured eyes, staring into his soul.
The next time they met was centuries later.
This time, however, he did not don the telltale brown of the Millelith. Instead, he was clothed in the grey and red monochrome of the Fatui, with a stud of red in one ear, and an impressive sword clasped in his left hand.
Even miles ahead of him on the battlefield (for where else could those destined for carnage meet?) Morax recognised him in an instant.
Loyalty— truly, does it mean anything when it can shift in the blink of an eye?
Though he supposed what felt so minute to him was an entire lifetime or two or three for everyone else. Never had his immortality felt so binding, so... constricting before. Never before had he wished to be the same as those fleeting mortal souls. Like shooting stars, bright, beautiful, streaking across the horizon. Brilliant for a moment, but only for a moment.
Loyalties can shift so fast. Though he supposed it would be selfish to want to keep him all for himself.
For the mortal was truly a vision on the battlefield. He did not have any semblance of elemental power, not like Morax himself, or even Ganyu or Alatus. But he moved with all the fluidity of a waterfall, his sword flashing in mere instances as it danced from one target to the next; slicing, parrying, stabbing— straight through sinew and bone.
He supposed he should stop him. After all, those were his own men being shredded into ribbons. His soldiers, all those who had pledged their allegiance to him. He had a duty to defend them— he knew this.
But every rule had an exception. And it seemed Morax had met his.
Five of the Millelith Brigade charged forward at once, hoping to overwhelm him. All were cut down in a matter of moments. He advanced forward, blue eyes flashing with pride and adrenaline, clearing a path through Morax's formations.
He frowned. That would not do.
With a clean swipe of Vortex Vanquisher, the sand god who had dared to engage him was decimated to mere particles, bound to the land beneath his feet. Three more swipes. A parry. The tips of his brown hair glowed gold as a celestial meteor was summoned from the skies above, taking with it an entire platoon.
It wasn't long before he came face to face with his target.
It took only a second for him to register the presence of his new opponent, ginger hair flashing as he spun around with a whirl.
It took another second to realise who he was.
Morax could see the instant in which his eyes widened, sword hand pausing mid-swing. It was not difficult to tell, after all. Liyue's guardian deity hardly bothered to conceal his identity, and the divine power radiating off him would be a dead giveaway even if he did.
And yet, Morax observed, there was no fear in the mortal's eyes. No apprehension whatsoever that he was about to come face to face with a god.
Not just a god. An Archon.
Because there was only excitement in his eyes for the fight he knew was about to come, though it may very well be his last. Idly, Morax wondered if this was what it was like to not just tolerate fighting, but to actually enjoy it too.
The idea was strange to him.
But it suited the mortal, he thought. And though it would barely cost anything at all to crush him (a flick of his hand, a drop of power from the infinity contained within his chest pocket), he found himself wanting to give him the fight he so clearly wanted.
And so he willed his divinity into the ether. The half-human half-lin form he usually preferred fell away, and in its place stood a form he was yet unused to. Almost wholly mortal, clad in a crisp brown suit, though the glowing ends of his hair, he could not conceal. His spear was called back to his hand, and with a crack of lightning, he charged forward, swinging low.
The mortal let out a laugh, his lips twisting up into a delighted grin as he blocked. Morax was not using even a fraction of his power— they both knew this— and yet they still locked themselves in this strange waltz. A rhythmic motion of back and forth, shielding and attacking, twisting and turning.
The rest of the battle seemed to fall away. And despite how much he usually hated war, hated the screaming and the blood and the feel of a weapon in his palm, this was not so bad.
This, he could even grow to enjoy.
An unlikely opponent, but familiar nonetheless. And despite the circumstances, Zhongli found himself smiling too.
Guizhong would be proud , he thought, surprising himself. He had not thought of her in years. He ducked under the next slice. She would have liked him.
The mortal feigned left, swinging his sword over his head in a wide arc, and Morax was forced to pay attention. Despite the fact that he was only human, he was still an excellent fighter, and Morax was not quite perfect himself. A simple enough maneuver, easy in practice but quite difficult to execute. Moray sidestepped in turn, bringing up his spear to counter it. He braced himself for impact, for as strong as this body was, pain was still universal.
But the blow never came.
Instead, he felt himself being shoved backwards. Hard. He should have been able to hold his ground, but this new vessel was yet unfamiliar and the move was so unexpected that he stumbled back two paces, feet scrambling to find purchase in the coarse dirt.
Disoriented, he glanced back up to see what in Celestia had just happened, when suddenly, he froze, locked in place by his own buckling knees.
A Fatui soldier had thrust his spear forward into the middle of the fray, no doubt hoping to catch Morax while he was preoccupied. While he was distracted.
And the mortal— the stupid, stupid mortal had pushed him away—
—and in doing so, impaled himself on the jagged edge of metal instead.
Morax saw the exact moment the life left his eyes. It haunted him in centuries to come, it would haunt him for centuries more. He did not register catching the body in his arms, did not register the tears that were threatening to well up beneath his eyelids. He did not register slicing the man who had done this clean in half.
All around him, the battle raged, unaware and uncaring.
He should have known.
He should have known.
Because as desperately familiar as the situation was starting to become, this feeling of helplessness, the knowledge of this tragic inevitability, this agony that was exploding beneath his skin— all of it was starting to chip away at the precipices of Morax's soul. He was reaching the end of this cruel game he had been thrust into, and he was not sure if he had the will to play it again.
Somewhere, distantly, he heard the Cryo Archon giggle.
He hadn't even known his name.
And there, for a moment so bright and fleeting and brief, like flash paper held over an open, sparkling flame, rage was all the world could see.
The Rule of Four was not something that needed to be taught.
Every number had its own significance. Of course, for there would be no reason for their existence if not. But four is especially special. Momentous, history defining, world shaping things, events and moments and celebrations— they all happen in fours . For change tends to make itself known in quarters.
Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter.
Most were obvious. Seasons of change, phases of celestial bodies. Most you could guess, simply by virtue of there being four of them. Most were simply symbolic, like a tragedy in four parts or four slices of a cake. Most times, four could easily be replaced by another number. One considered more even, more fulfilling. Numbers like threes and fives and tens were favoured, after all.
But one thing about it was special.
Crescent, Gibbous, Half, Full.
One thing about it made it truly stand out, for there is something unavoidable, inevitable, holding you to the Rule of Four— though you will never realise it.
North, South, East, West.
Unless, of course, you are an immortal.
Because that is the way this universe has been engineered. To give you not just a second chance and not just a third, but four opportunities to make your place in the world.
Four chances at life, four incarnations, and then black, forever. The infinite sea, the ascend to Celestia. There is no price a mortal could ever pay for a fifth, because nothing is quite so valuable as a life. No money could buy it, no deeds could earn it. For life is something purely selfish, and by virtue of sacrifice, no cost is high enough. It is a gamble, of course, but most things in this world are. There is no reward if there is no risk— and here, we risk the greatest thing of all.
The Rule of Four is a tragedy in four parts. To immortals, it is a drama in three.
One, Two, Three, Four.
And then darkness.
The waiting was agony.
The thing about immortality that no one ever said out loud is that nearly all of it is spent waiting. The what and why of it is unimportant. What matters is that living is a constant stretch of jumping from one eventuality to the next, and the eons of waiting in between.
This, he was used to. Stone is inherently patient, after all.
But what was different this time was that he was waiting for something. He was used to his life being a stretch of eternity behind him and another one in front. He was used to the infinity of that timeline, the arrows that pointed nowhere in either direction. But this...
This was unbearable.
This was staring out the window at steamer boats chugging past and wondering if any of them contained who he was so desperately searching for. This was startling himself at every shade of umber, orange and auburn he walked past, longing blooming in his chest, being crushed just as quickly. This was travelling every inch of the continent, hoping against hope that he was not too late— that he still had another chance.
He had not realised just how much time had passed.
That was the irony of waiting, he supposed. If you do it for long enough, you forget you are doing it at all. It simply asserts itself into your routine, calls your home its own and settles there, waiting in turn. All the while you do not realise you are doing it subconsciously, but if you stop, even for a moment, you feel yourself crumple like paper in the rain.
That was the agony of waiting.
He had not realised that everything had changed, until he did.
The Stone Harbour had been established centuries ago; till date it remained Zhongli's proudest accomplishment. A bustling metropolis of commerce and trade, a land where contracts were heralded as the most divine form of retribution, where the Qixing prevailed and where the qualms of the people were resolved by the people themselves.
It had been home for so very long.
And yet, Zhongli realised one fine afternoon as he gazed out upon the harbour, it was not the same as the one he had once known.
He was still intimately familiar with every inch of it. He still knew of every crack in the pavement and every bit of moss clinging to the walls, and he was still a valued patron of every storefront in the city. After all, this new alias he had taken on, Zhongli, was esteemed as the mysterious funeral parlour consultant of Wangsheng Funeral Parlour— knowledgeable on every subject under the shadow of Celestia.
But still, times had changed, and he had not changed with them. Rock does not bend, only weathers and bears, eventually turning to the very dust it once came from. And in his heart, he knew that he was one and the same.
Liyue did not need its beloved God any longer— he had long since handed the reins over to those who truly ruled in his stead. And yet, he still remained, ever a figurehead, ever waiting and watching. For a sign. A miracle. Anything.
He knew he could not wait much longer. He was not needed to rule, and what was life without purpose? Immortality was not synonymous with eternity. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and who was he if not either of those things?
But still, he waited. He sipped his tea and listened to storytellers regale dramatized stories of his youth. He collected rare antiques he found, each of them a memory from bygone days. He counted the days and grew Glaze Lillies in his garden, though he knew they would never be as beautiful as the ones in the wild.
He waited and he waited and he waited.
And then one day, the constellation on his chest glowed a tiny bit brighter. It was only barely a difference, like the paper thin edge of a Qingxin petal, but Zhongli could tell. He had spent more time staring at the mark than he liked to admit, and every line, every point of every star was engraved into his memory like a stone carving.
He traced the outline of it with a finger and scarcely dared to hope.
He had no gods to pray to, for praying to himself felt like blasphemy, and praying to another felt like betrayal. But still he closed his eyes and hoped to the higher beings he knew were out there that all this waiting would not have been for naught.
Around him, the city continued to change.
And he continued to wait.
"You know she's planning something, don't you?"
Zhongli simply sipped his floral tea. The concoction had been steeped for exactly three hours before being drained through a bed of freshly plucked Qingxin petals, grown on the highest peaks of Jueyun Karst. It was then cooled and thickened over a low flame overnight, and poured into a steam bath when finally ready to be served.
That is all to say, it was a lot of work. Something Zhongli certainly did not intend to waste. "I'm not certain I know what you mean."
"The Tsaritsa, old man," comes the reply. "She's planning something and it's going to be big ."
"Ah, that." Zhongli took another long sip of tea, frowning as he realised it was no longer at the ideal temperature. "Yes, I'm aware that she has begun making preparations for something. All twelve of her Harbingers have been summoned back to Moresepok this past week, and Zapolyarny Palace has not been this busy in centuries."
"So?" asked Barbatos, or rather Venti, as he had chosen to call himself these days. "Does that not pique your interest at all?"
"I would be more inclined to information if it concerned me at all. But it does not. The Tsaritsa is free to engage herself in whatever leisure activities she pleases."
Venti groaned as he slammed a ceramic teapot onto the stone table, the sharp clang of it making Zhongli wince. "But it does concern you! It concerns all of us, don't you see?" He leans forwards conspiratorially, as if a Fatui spy was about to leap out of the bushes and ambush them at any moment. "I heard she's looking for our Gnoses."
Zhongli paused mid sip. This was news to him. "Our Gnoses? What in Celestia does she need those for?"
Even as he spoke, he felt the warmth of the offending object as it rippled within his chest. The source of his power. The essence of his core. It should feel more important than it does , he thought idly.
"Beats me," shrugged Venti, frowning into his cup of very, very expensive tea, before tipping the contents out onto the grass. Zhongli had to fight the urge to kick him out then and there, and the stone of his chair cracked under the force of his white-knuckled grip. "All I know is that it's the most interesting thing that's happened in centuries . It's gotten awfully boring 'round here these days.”
"How did you come across this information, anyway?"
Venti winked at that, pulling out a bottle of Dandelion Wine from goodness knows where. "Whispers travel well on the wind, my friend. My powers may not be as fancy as the great Rex Lapis's, but they still have their uses."
Zhongli's brows furrowed. "So you were spying on her? You know that's against the law."
"I wouldn't call it so much spying , as I would gathering information."
"They mean the same."
"Big changes are coming, Morax," the bard replied, tone suddenly somber. "How will you embrace them when they do?" He peered over the rim of his bottle, blue-green eyes appraising. "You oughta consider making a contract with her."
"Why don't you do it yourself?"
"Eh, the hag never liked me. Besides, I'm not strong enough to resist if she chooses to take it by force. But you on the other hand... I do think it would be in both of your best interests." He snorted in amusement. "Isn't it funny? The War God tending towards diplomacy, while Mondstadt's absentee Archon tends to battle."
Zhongli considered this, mind whirring with possibilities. He had not gone to war in a long, long while, his years of fighting long behind him. This would not be the conventional kind of war— this was another skill-set entirely; but one he was no less acquainted with. This was chess. This was staring at his opponent from across the table and pushing the king forwards instead of back. It had been a while, but... considering strategies and battle plans, contracts and counter proposals, he felt as though he were greeting an old friend, a part of him he had chosen to keep locked away for so many years.
"I will have to give it some thought."
"You take all the time you need, old man," Venti called teasingly, leaning back as far as his chair would allow without tipping over. "It would seem to be about all any of us have left, anyway."
Zhongli nodded soberly, suddenly acute of the implications of it all. If the Tsaritsa was planning a war, or perhaps even a coup, then what would that mean for him ?
The mark on his chest seemed to burn a little brighter.
He sighed lowly, staring into the swirling brown of his tea, no longer steaming with wisps of vapour like it was supposed to. It did not possess any of the answers he wanted. He had not expected it to, but he found himself feeling mildly disappointed nonetheless.
However...
"You alright there, buddy? You look like you're having a rough time."
For a moment, Zhongli considered not saying anything at all. After all, the timing of it may have very well been a coincidence. But if it had not been, then...
Wordlessly, Zhongli started unbuttoning his vest.
"Whoa, there! I know we're close but we're not that close!"
Zhongli did not deign to reply, finally reaching the last of his layers and tugging the collar of his shirt away to reveal the glowing white mark, still stark against his skin.
For a long moment, Venti did not say a word. His blue-green eyes remained affixed to that singular spot over his heart. Then slowly, as if possessed, he tugged down a single, ruffled sleeve, revealing a similarly white mark on his forearm.
Zhongli felt his eyes shoot up to his hairline. He recognised the symbol in an instant. It was a constellation he was very well acquainted with, one belonging to one of his closest friends and fiercest protectors. He could not decipher much from the guarded gaze in Barbatos's eyes, but from the looks of it, he had recognised it too.
"Do you think..." he started, then paused, unsure of what to make of this new revelation. "Do you think she-"
"What I think," interrupted Venti, tugging the sleeve back down to cover the mark once more. "Is that you need to loosen up a little. Wheesh! This has been way too much serious talk for one day."
Zhongli blinked once, then nodded. For as obnoxious as the bard was, he had lived nearly as long as Morax himself, and whatever the reasons for his actions, it was not his place to judge.
So instead, he simply took one last sip of his flowery concoction, and raised the cup of room-temperature tea. Despite it not having the intended effect, he thought that perhaps it did not taste so bad after all. The coolness was kind of nice, considering the warmer weather. He could grow to like it, he thought. It was unfamiliar but...
Not unwelcome.
"To the Tsaritsa."
Venti grinned a familiar, lopsided smile in return, raising his bottle of crimson wine. It might not be much, and the rising tides were bound to change the fates, one way or another. But for the moment, it was enough. "To changing the world, old friend."
"Mister Zhongli! Mister Zhongli!"
The man in question emerged from his chambers on the top floor of the parlour, shirt pressed and hair neatly gathered. "How may I assist you, Director Hu?"
"Aiya, you're looking sharp! Alas, it is not I who needs your services today. Business has been terribly slow these days. But someone has requested your presence in the tea room!"
Zhongli nodded emphatically. "I shall go see what they require then. Do you know who it is?"
Hu Tao smiled, raising a ringed finger to her lips. "He's not from the Harbour, that's for sure! He was wearing this musty uniform... I've never seen anyone who looks more like a foreigner. He's quite good looking though." She winked, and Zhongli was not certain what to make of it. "Best not keep him waiting too long."
With that enigmatic send off, Zhongli found himself being ushered into the tea room. It was not used often (after all, most of his clients were in no position for tea ) but it was kept well maintained nonetheless. Behind him, the Ferrylady kept fluttering around nervously, muttering something about thinks he can buy me and no good Fatui rascal.
How foreboding, thought Zhongli as he emerged into the well-lit room. He caught sight of his visitor almost immediately— he was not easy to miss, after all. He opened his mouth to offer a greeting; hospitality was always a necessity, and whatever would Director Hu think if he somehow offended this important-seeming guest? And then he turned around and blue eyes met his and-
Oh.
Oh.
Fate had always been a fickle thing.
When Zhongli had been young, (at least, younger than he now was) he had always assumed destiny to be something of a myth. In the same way Hydromancy was only ever vague in its predictions, and omens were more preventative measures than causational ones. It seemed like the sort of thing you said , but never actually meant .
Because to find out that all choices are preordained is giving himself too little accountability. The inevitability would give him an excuse— something to hide behind when the weight of the sky and the earth and all his mistakes seemed too heavy to bear. Destiny was too easy— a way out he did not deserve.
But now we wondered if it was simply something in between.
Destiny.
Reality.
Truly, how dissimilar were the two?
For perhaps there were simply some things written in the stars. Some things were bound to happen, no matter the bad decisions and no matter the trail of bloody footprints leading up to it.
Perhaps…
Meeting him was destiny. Over and over and over again.
Or perhaps it was simply blind luck.
Zhongli had never considered himself lucky before. Never had any need for it.
But now...
Luck? Fate?
No.
He had been looking, after all. For century after century, he had waited and hoped and prayed.
And now here he was, looking quite nearly the same as he remembered. Monochrome red and grey uniform, red earring dangling from one ear. A mask to the left of him, a hydro vision to the right. A hundred compliments lying in wait on a silver tongue, a nimbleness in his fingers Zhongli had not realised mattered so much.
He was one and the same.
He was wholly different.
Zhongli's heart throbbed.
Fighting a smile, he descended the final flight of stairs. A final step towards the infinity that lay in wait. The endless possibilities and permutations that called to him— for once he did not dread heeding their call.
Destiny.
Nonsense.
"Welcome to the Wangsheng Funeral Parlour. How may I assist you?"